


combing through the layers underneath

by Manfedzku



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gen, Internalized gender roles, Mother-Daughter Relationship, stigmas about women with short hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22544131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manfedzku/pseuds/Manfedzku
Summary: “You cut itshort?”Her mother’s accusation tumbled down upon Maria's shoulders like weighty locks of hair.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36
Collections: Manfedzku Writes





	combing through the layers underneath

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write more about Lieutenant Ross.
> 
> Thank you very much to Ganymeme for beta-ing my story!

“You cut it _short_?”

Her mother’s accusation tumbled down upon her shoulders like weighty locks of hair.

Maria sat at their family dining table, visiting for the weekend. She traced a woven coaster beneath a glass of water with a fingertip, letting stray threads catch the uneven cut on the edge of her nail.

“Mom, it’s been—it was...getting in the way of training,” she muttered. If there was one benefit that Maria missed from having flowing tresses, it was the illusion of wearing a hood, one that she could hunch into fully knowing that it would hide her face. Now, there was no curtain of black to swathe the dip in her posture, no bangs to conceal her cowering.

Instead, the back of her neck was an open field of waving grass, with the wind carding gently across the soil that was her skin.

“You look like a _boy_ ,” her mom dismissed, voice as hard as the way she used to attack the snarls in Maria’s hair. “You could’ve just bound it in a bun. A _bun_ , young _lady_ , but nooooo!” She punctuated her words by slapping the back of a hairbrush on the table between them.

Her mother’s idea of a bun had always involved twisting her own hair so tight it would strangle itself with its own strands, as if she would rather suffer through the pain than lose her beloved ebony crown. It had appeared she was in the middle of tying it up again when Maria entered the house, hair shorn and face guilty. Her mother had belted out a hair-raising shriek, which would have been funny if her ire wasn’t directed towards her only daughter.

“ _Well?”_ her mom bellowed as Maria flinched. “Where’s your excuse?”

Mouth seemingly filled with cotton, she tried to speak, but only succeeded in sucking air between her teeth. 

“Unbelievable.” Her mom bit her lip as she turned away, heading towards a cupboard where a jar full of coins was kept. “Tomorrow, we’ll buy you a wig.”

Maria snapped up at that, not believing her ears at the simple announcement.

“Or maybe we could go to that alchemist barber down the street,” continued her mother, heedless of the growing feeling of dread that was suffocating her daughter. “I heard he had one of those circle symbols for gradually regrowing hair.”

Before she knew it, Maria was on her feet, furiously blinking the tears out of her eyes. “No, you…you can’t—“

“And why is that?!” her mother barked. “You enter my house looking _unladylike_ and, god, all those years of caring for your hair and you just cut it all off like it doesn’t even matter!”

“It was uncomfortable!” she shot back. “It was hot and distracting and—“

“ _Then_ tie it into a bun! A ponytail for all I care!”

“I don’t want to tie it into anything! Just wanted short hair for a change—!“

“There you go,” her mother put her hands on her hips, sounding simultaneously triumphant and disappointed. “You ‘wanted’ short hair. What next? You’ll be chucking all your dresses I’ve spent thousands of cenz on?!”

What.

Maria was taken aback with where the conversation had gone. “I just wanted short hair. Nothing bad with anyone, especially women, _wanting_ short hair.” Her voice was growing shriller by the second as she desperately tried to untangle the leaps of thought inside her mother’s mind. “Is this what it is about? It’s not like I’m letting go of my being a girl, eh?”

But her mom was already spiraling down, clutching her head, staring into space and stringing ideas of fallacious logic. “You don’t like your hair anymore. You hate it so much you just sliced it like fraying threads and threw it away, then next you’ll be throwing away your gown and dresses and _heels,_ and then your make-up will just expire in your dresser and even if you did want all those the _great and powerful military_ of Amestris would beat it out of my little girl anyway—“

Her words thinned out, and before long she began sobbing.

How long was she keeping all this in, Maria wondered. Perhaps an entire year, ever since Maria left home to reside in the academy’s dorms. She had always known deep down that her mother disagreed with her decision to sign up for the military, despite her not saying anything before today. Her eyes picked out the shimmering gray atop of her mother’s head, but they seemed to dull the longer she looked.

“Mom?” She reached out a hand to smooth away some strands that were sticking to her mother’s cheeks.

“You shouldn’t be in the military.” Her mother hiccupped. “You’re a _lady_. It’s not your job to be in there.”

Maria quickly withdrew her arm as if her parent had just threatened to scissor her fingers. Without saying another word, she sought sanctuary in her old room.

***

The running hot water streamed across her scalp and cascaded over the nape of her neck. Shampoo overflowed and dripped down from her cupped palm before Maria remembered she didn’t need as much amount as before anymore. Hadn’t needed a lot for the past four days.

Oh well, she’d just live with having strong lily scents wafting after her for a week wherever she passed by.

She lathered the shampoo and massaged it in, marveling at the fact that she could cater to her scalp much better now. She delighted in the lightness of her head, how she could turn this way and that without getting annoyed with the tickling and prickling of the split ends.

Short hair did not vie for her attention on windy days either, so she wouldn't have to keep tucking them behind her ears every time just to keep them in line.

Her fingers continued to run through tuft by little tuft, scrubbing at the build-up of oil and grit at the back of her head. A sigh escaped her as she turned up the shower and rinsed, feeling the thick lather caress its goodbyes down her body and into the drain.

After patting herself dry with a towel, it came to her that she wouldn’t need to wrap her hair with the towel anymore either.

Another check added to the advantage checklist.

After putting on some clothes, she stood inspecting herself in the mirror. Some of her hair curled against her forehead, seemingly content, while the sides were tapered so they did not frame her face. She looked nice, she _felt_ nice.

Maria took a brush and winced as dozens of bristles scraped against her skull. Her mom’s words kept echoing about how she looked like a boy now, how she couldn't handle being in the military because she was a woman. Her mom basically implied that Maria had to man up just to fit in when all Maria wanted was short _freakin’_ hair—

A knock on her door.

Maria reached out to open it, and found her mother standing before her. Her eyes were clear and focused upon her daughter.

This took Maria back to when she was a child, when her hands were clumsy and uncooperative, when she would sprint to her mother who would style her hair for her in this very room. Her mom’s movements were fluid as she imposed the bun on her by brushing each parted segment exactly nine times, knotting a bright blue scrunchie around it thrice, and topping everything off by clamping the stubborn ends with a bejeweled hair clip. And then she and her mom would be mirror images of each other.

And they were happy with that simple thing.

At the moment, her mom was stepping solemnly into her room. Today her hair hung loose, a black veil.

“For you,” her mother said, as she held out her palm.

On it laid a rectangular, wooden comb with smooth-edged teeth. Even at a time when her mom was angry and confused, she had still retained her impeccable timing.

Maria cupped her hand over her mother’s and took the apology.

The comb stroked through her hair, its warm touch radiating something akin to the beginning of acceptance.


End file.
